End Game
by iFreak
Summary: My version of the ending of The Great Game - "He would never be bored again."
1. So Cold Inside

As soon as Sherlock saw the slight inclination of John's head he knew what he was going to do. Unfortunately, it had likely filtered through Moriarty's mind that Sherlock had only the one option, and the former was rather a lot closer to the nearest exit. Not that Sherlock cared overly; at least he wasn't bored. Oh no; Moriarty had seen to that. It was as though the man knew what it felt like to be dead with the dullness of the world, as though he knew that the mind was a fragile thing, so easily snapped by the heavy grip of the boredom that had so often stolen Sherlock's health. If Sherlock's mind snapped he didn't know what he would do; his mind was all he had, that twisted labyrinth of never-ending thoughts and theories and stratagems, the entwines of wonder and intellect and knowledge that made him all that he was.

But even then, this wasn't about that. Not really. Sherlock had felt something strange stirring in his stomach since the other man had walked back to the pool side and the little red light had passed over his chest once again. Because at that moment, Sherlock had been taken utterly by surprise. That was not something that happened to him, and Sherlock _hated_ Moriarty for it. _Nobody_ was cleverer than him. _Nobody_ wrong-footed him. He was Sherlock Holmes, the greatest mind in the world. He could work out anything, could see anything, could predict anything. But he hadn't even considered that Moriarty would walk back in. Why would he? Without Sherlock, what was he? Clever. He was just clever, and being clever wasn't enough unless somebody else was clever too.

Sherlock had not wanted to kill Moriarty; he didn't want to lose possibly the only mind on the planet capable of rivalling his (he refused to count Mycroft, because his brother was different, his mind was not like Sherlock's, it was not like Moriarty's). He didn't want to be bored again. But the flash of red, the breath of John in the chlorinated air, the grating laugh and the hideous _knowing_ look in Moriarty's eyes was almost more than Sherlock could bear.

His hand had lowered, the gun pointing steadily at the jacket. Dark eyes dropped to stare at what he was about to do, his mind suddenly still. He could sense, rather than see, John's eyes on him, wondering if the detective was truly reckless enough to shoot. He could feel the pressure of the air on his skin, slightly too warm to be comfortable, the smell of the chemicals familiar and comforting. He could hear the soft breath of the sniper behind and to his right, calm and ready. But worst of all he could already feel it creeping in; the boredom. The blackness that was capable of sucking him under, the feeling that poisoned his mind and dulled his senses. The feeling that made life not worth living. Boredom. Sherlock wouldn't allow it to happen.

He wasn't even sure of where he was anymore; all that existed was him and his mind and the poison that was even now beginning to stain the edges of everything he knew. Boredom. Somehow, if he destroyed the jacket, he knew he could destroy the boredom. If his finger pressed, it would all be gone; that jacket was his boredom, and to shoot it would be to make him utterly invincible. He could make his mind truly his own, would never have to surrender his thoughts again. He would never feel so cold inside, so lost and so _bored_.

The movement ahead of him didn't register, because Sherlock's will was no longer his own; he would never be bored again and he would pull the trigger. There was a bang that echoed inside his head, an impact and another bang. Something hit him and Sherlock became aware, suddenly, that there was fire in his blood. Worse still, there was fire in his mind; it was all he could see, all he could feel and he wasn't even sure if he was alive anymore. His thoughts were burning, twisting and dying as embers before disappearing into ash that floated away into a blackness that Sherlock followed into, giving himself over to the fire because at least he wasn't _bored_. He would never be bored again.


	2. To Know Panic

Mycroft was running, never mind the rain that pelted his skin and the priceless suit which was already ruined; he had been too slow. He'd been busy, he'd been occupied, he'd been distracted. He hadn't been _there_ and he hadn't known and now it was too late because the shriek of sirens had already deafened him, the orange glow of the flames up ahead burning itself onto his skull. Too late.

But still he ran, because there was nothing else he could do; he ran so his lungs felt full of gravel, until his vision grew dark and his head felt stuffed full of wire because he had been too slow but maybe, somehow, he wouldn't be too late. He _couldn't_ be too late, not tonight. Not today, not tomorrow and not ever, because Sherlock was all he had and Sherlock was not allowed to die before Mycroft.

What had been the old pool was now little more than smoke and shapeless rock and expensive leather was thoroughly destroyed as Mycroft charged over broken tiles and pieces of rock, already slippery with rain and so horribly sharp. Lestrade was there already, standing on the pile and digging with his bare hands, but he turned as his name was yelled, a name that had somehow issued from Mycroft's mouth though the latter hadn't even been sure that he had a voice.

"Let him through!" Lestrade demanded, and Mycroft was admitted to the crime scene at once, pushing himself onwards though he might have fainted at any moment; Sherlock. Sherlock was in there, Sherlock was buried and Sherlock might be dead. He could have stopped this; in an ordinary day there was nowhere in the city Sherlock could go without his brother's knowledge, without a camera following his every movement or a well paid observer in a cafe informing Mycroft of where he was, what he was doing. But today he had been distracted and this was exactly why Mycroft had never allowed such things before.

"Where is he?" he found himself yelling, in a voice that was more of a scream, and his knees suddenly spiked with pain as he fell to them. "Where?"

"We don't know." The retort was sharp, breathless, and Lestrade's hands were covered in his own blood, though the DI paid little notice. "I don't know."

And what made it worse was that even Mycroft didn't know. He didn't even know where he could begin, and settled with pushing his hands downwards, the pain of the broken glass cutting through his skin unfelt and uncared for. Sherlock was buried somewhere, his brother Sherlock who was his last remaining anything worth a damn in the world and Mycroft would have given anything he owned to undo this entire evening.

"Over here!" somebody yelled, waving an arm, and Mycroft was on his feet, Lestrade on his heels, making his way over. There was a crowd of people already there, all grabbing at the rubble, showing it aside with no care for procedure or tools because there were people beneath them and this was not a question of what was right but what was quickest.

Mycroft could see an arm and a long fingered hand. Those fingers were ones he would have recognised anywhere; how many times had he watched them dance over the strings of that violin his brother loved so much? Even all these years later, when Sherlock had not played for Mycroft for so long, they were still the same. The same fingers he himself had grasped to lead a five year old child across the street, fingers that had pulled desperately at his jacket the day Mycroft had left for university. Fingers that had helped poison Sherlock's blood a hundred times over, fingers that had saved the lives of strangers. "SHERLOCK!" His shout rent the air and he was on his knees again, gripping the hand for all he was worth and digging as best he could to free the rest of what he prayed was his breathing brother and not just his body, or worse yet, simply an arm.

It took several painfully slow minutes but soon enough a suited torso came into view, ripped and bloodstained but rising and falling unevenly with shallow breaths. "Oh my god," Lestrade muttered, continuing to push at the stone.

As he emerged, it became clear that Sherlock wasn't too badly injured. He was soaking wet and bleeding enough to make Mycroft feel his stomach turn unpleasantly, but he was breathing and he was whole and he was clutching a gun. Paramedics had arrived and Mycroft was shoved mercilessly away as they removed his little brother to try and save his life, as Sherlock had saved so many before. This was different to the way Sherlock saved lives, though, because the people strapping an oxygen mask over his face and running him to a waiting ambulance cared about the outcome, whereas Sherlock cared only for himself.

Mycroft followed behind, throwing himself inside the ambulance before they could shut the doors. "I'm his brother," he said, unaware that his voice was too loud; his mind was muffled by shock and fear. Hands fumbled through his jacket to pull out an ID but the ambulance was already moving, sirens blaring overhead; they didn't care. Sherlock was the priority, the lifeless form slumped on the bed, unaware of anything going on. This Mycroft knew, because if his brother had had even the remotest idea of what was happening he would have been complaining furiously; he'd always hated hospitals and he'd have been especially furious at having an oxygen mask clamped over his face. Sherlock would say that he didn't need help; that his life was his own and he would do with it what he pleased. How many times had Mycroft had those words thrown at him?

Countless times, numerous occasions that all felt the same to the older man but this one was different, because Sherlock was not awake to yell at him, there were no needle marks over his arms. He didn't stink of cigarette smoke and he was, Mycroft knew, very clean of the illegal things he'd once been so partial to. This was not a situation Mycroft had found himself in before, and he didn't like it one bit; he hated feeling out of place, loathed not knowing what to do. There was a feeling rising swiftly into his throat that he did not recognise and Mycroft reached out to grasp Sherlock's hand again, tight enough to keep him tethered to consciousness because mercy knew the man wanted nothing more than to just slip away and pretend the world didn't exist anymore.


End file.
